


A Surprising Lack Of Context

by rowanthestrange_yugihell



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (Because Life Is Complex And So Are They), (also sort of), (sort of), But Smut With Character, F/F, Fingering, Masturbation, Neurodivergent Doctor, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Smut From Start To Finish, Trans Doctor, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 13:10:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16640750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowanthestrange_yugihell/pseuds/rowanthestrange_yugihell
Summary: In which there is newness, there is baggage, and there is the present moment.Or alternatively: In which sex proves to be both easy and complicated, should probably not be attempted on a sofa, and suddenly makes a lot more sense.





	A Surprising Lack Of Context

* * *

  


“Is this a bad idea?” Yaz whispers, a centimetre away from the Doctor’s nose.

The Doctor's eyes are black with a rim of autumn, eyelids fighting not to slide shut. Her parted lips mouth words that they don’t say out loud, until a crease of concentration forms between her eyebrows.

“Idea?” The Doctor says confusedly, as if there could be nothing more impossible as such a coherent thought as an _idea_.

The Doctor's lips remain slightly parted. Is it weird she sort of wants to lick her teeth?

I mean, she could do that. That’s on the table now. Well, on the _sofa_ , anyway. Anything could happen.

The giddy thought makes Yaz lean in again and press her lips to the Doctor’s.

Is this what kissing is supposed to feel like? Because this makes a lot more sense. A _lot_ more. Soft, and good, and the Doctor’s right - what the heck is an _idea_?

The Doctor seems to melt under her, falling back against the arm of the sofa, little breaths huffing irregularly as Yaz tries not to squish her nose. She always hated that feeling with Biz - like snogging on a timer and never being sure if he was gonna let her up for air or not.

Oh God, this is so much better. Girls good, so, so good.

Sure she’s basically drunk right now, Yaz dares to slide the tip of her tongue against the Doctor's lips, and her noiseless gasp sets Yaz’s whole body fizzing like a shaken coke can. 

The sensation makes Yaz curl her leg around one of the Doctor's, pressing them together as she runs along the underside of her teeth with her tongue. Feel like teeth. Mystery solved.

The Doctor doesn't move though, and Yaz pulls back a little again.

“This still alright?”

The wrecked alien nods, eyes half-lidded but pupils wide, tilting her chin up again to invite her back down. Alien. She’s an alien. But she doesn't feel like one. A bit bonkers, yeah, but Yaz’s brain still says ‘human’ and that must be ok, right?

It’s impossible to stop - like they’re magnetised. Now she gets it. Like when she had to break apart that couple getting way too friendly on a park bench during their lunch hour. This is how that stuff happens. There’s nothing beyond this, right now, this is all there is and ever will be.

With the hand she doesn't need to keep her balance with, Yaz cups the Doctor’s jaw, just to see what will happen, what it feels like, just because she can.

The Doctor’s mouth opens under hers, and she makes the smallest, breathiest noises every time Yaz strokes her, like she’s trying to keep quiet but can’t.

Yaz doesn't want her to. Wants her to moan, and whisper her name, and to tell her everything.

No, wait, too needy. Tone it down.

Yaz brushes a thumb down the Doctor's cheekbone, to the corner of their joined mouths, then runs her hand down and around the back of her neck, thumb on her throat. Feels her swallow.

Something changes.

The Doctor is still motionless under her, but the quality of it shifts. All the previously imperceptible movements stop, suddenly recognisable by their absence - even her breathing pauses, her body freezing completely.

Yaz immediately sits up, trying to put as little weight on her as possible, and searches the Doctor's face. She’s harder to read with her eyes shut.

“Ok? I can stop.” Yaz says quickly, a heavy, squirming sensation curdling out of the pleasure from a moment ago. She can go. She can pretend it never happened. She can lock it down where her worst errors of judgement live, and never let herself think about it ever again.

The Doctor shakes her head rapidly, and - almost obstinately - raises her chin for another kiss.

“No, I mean it, we can-”

The Doctor opens her eyes, and somehow that’s worse, because Yaz knows that look.

Like the Doctor thinks she’s broken something between them.

She looks that way every time she lets them in a little further. Like they’ll turn and run for the hills. Like they’ll hate her. Like they’ll tell her they can’t do this anymore, and never want to see her again.

“I just-” The Doctor blurts out, and Yaz nods encouragingly, hoping she sees it before she shuts her eyes again. “I don’t-” The Doctor stops, her mouth twists, and she frowns as if she’s angry. Finally the Doctor moves her hand from where it lay flat on the couch beside her, and quickly squeezes it around her own throat, before wedging it back beneath Yaz’s leg like a restraint.

Choking. A trigger of some sort. Another thing she didn't know about. Yaz knows so little about the Doctor. And _she_ knows so little about _her_.

Maybe they should talk about these things. Maybe she could unlock that room of past mistakes for her as well. Maybe that's what you’re supposed to do here, lay yourself bare, instead of ploughing on headlong.

The Doctor squeezes her eyes tight as if pretending she’s invisible, and says in a rush, whispering so quietly her lips barely move;

“Please don’t stop.”

It probably _is_ a bad idea. They should talk about this. But the Doctor won’t want to, and Yaz doesn’t want to open that cell door all the way, and besides, she doesn't see that the Doctor needs to know everything about her, or vice versa - they have the right to remain silent.

Yaz leans down to kiss her again, and the Doctor barely, just barely strokes her legs with her thumbs, which she’s pretty sure is currently the Doctor’s equivalent to pulling her into a dip and sticking her tongue down her throat.

It takes Yaz a minute to relax, peppering the Doctor with little kisses, until the Doctor starts to gently nibble her lower lip, which makes Yaz shudder and form to her again. She slides her arm around the Doctor’s head, more stable than keeping her weight on her tired wrist. It feels nice, curling around her, like she’s keeping her from some outside danger. Something she routinely fails to do in real life.

Yaz finds herself stroking the Doctor's shirt-covered belly as they lazily kiss - still careful of the sonic-bomb injuries she knows don’t pain her any more - and the Doctor wriggles like a happy puppy, complete with a little whine.

She isn’t doing something wrong here, is she? Morally? The Doctor's older than her, but doesn't feel like it in some ways, and there’s a part of her that worries it might be easy to accidentally take advantage of the Doctor's sweetness and desire to please. What if it’s all just for her benefit?

The Doctor hums against her lips, in the tone Yaz associates with the imminent pressing of buttons, asking of inappropriate questions, and throwing of manuals across rooms. The Doctor suddenly shifts beneath her - enough to have bucked Yaz off if she hadn’t been wedged against the back of the sofa - pulling Yaz’s knee up so it presses more firmly between her legs, and causing her hand to shift rather more northwards than the Doctor's stomach. Then the Doctor wiggles her arms out from where they’re trapped by her side, and raises them over her head, so they hang over the arm of the sofa, crossed at the wrists.

...Or maybe the Doctor wants her to get on with it, feel her up, and possibly wants to be restrained and sexily arrested. You know, whatever, she's not great at reading people, it’s a work in progress.

She resumes the kissing, and lets the Doctor suck on her tongue, while her remaining mental capacity focuses on her hand and the softness beneath.

Instinctively, her fingers curl around the Doctor's breast, and she rolls her palm over it, thumb trailing after and catching the rise of a nipple. A moan escapes her, mingling with the Doctor’s own as she arches her back to press into Yaz’s touch, and Yaz can’t help but grind her hips down against the Doctor’s.

Fuck it. 

They’ve consented to their bad idea. It's an event-in-progress now. Ride or die.

Yaz reaches down and shimmies the Doctor’s top from where it’s tucked into her trousers, as the Doctor presses herself against Yaz’s leg. With fumbling fingers, she gets trapped above the Doctor's undershirt, before finally finding smooth skin beneath, sliding her fingers up until they find the edge of material again. 

She’s putting her hand up a girl’s shirt. Woman’s. Alien’s. Whatever, that’s a bra, and there are breasts underneath, and they’re not hers.

Is this why teenage boys are so stupid? Because this would explain so much.

Her brain goes half in one direction, and half in another. Half savouring the moment - running her fingers along the underside of someone else’s bra, imagining the remnants of her fifteen-year-old self’s hormones zipping around her body, finally vindicated; and half trying to remove the Doctor’s shirt entirely and realising that in the Grand IQ Loss, she’s forgotten how clothes work.

The Doctor sits up, which pushes Yaz back on her haunches. The Doctor hastily shoves her braces off her shoulders, and reaches her arms over her back, pulling her shirts off like a boy, leaving her hair all over the place and her face red. 

Yaz laughs. She can’t help it. This is insane. She’s travelling space and time, saving the day and having adventures with an alien supergenius, and now they’re having a teenage fumble on a sofa.

Said alien blows the hair out of her eyes, and looks worriedly up at her for a second, before grinning and laughing herself. Maybe the Doctor sees the absurdity too. But then again, Yaz has never seen the Doctor able to suppress a smile when someone else was happy.

She might love her a bit. Well, she _knows_ she loves her, she’s just not sure _how_. But maybe it doesn't matter. There’s a feeling she’s enjoying right now, it doesn't need to be in a box yet. She can sort it out later.

For now, Yaz leans in to kiss her and lets the Doctor swallow the giggle on her lips.

It’s mis-timed, as the Doctor’s tugging off her plain white sports bra - that Yaz bought her herself before their hours of trashing a charity shop - and Yaz wants to complain that she didn't get even a second to enjoy the view, but their crash of lips and limbs only makes them both laugh harder, the last vestiges of tension dissolve, and yes, this is definitely what sex is supposed to be like.

Sex. This is going to be sex now. 

That’s fine. 

Is it fine? 

Yep, probably fine.

The Doctor flaps her hands at her a little, before returning them to the buttons on her trousers. The Doctor doesn't say anything, but she hears it anyway. ‘Come on Yaz, get a wiggle on.’

Yes Ma’am. 

It’s not exactly a striptease, Yaz thinks, as she drops her shirt over the back of the sofa with a flourish - but it’s definitely the most ostentatiously she’s removed her clothes since Rebekah White called her a dyke when they were changing for Netball.

The Doctor makes a distressed noise, shuffling her legs, and Yaz looks behind her to see the Doctor’s trousers caught on her boots. Teach her to wear shoes to bed.

She leans back and unties them, dropping them with a thunk over the arm, plucking the Doctor's stripy socks from her wriggling toes for good measure.

The Doctor squirms and kicks her trousers off, and Yaz becomes acutely aware that the only thing separating them is their underwear.

Really, _really_ ratty underwear. Grey with pink question-marks that she's pretty sure must’ve been black-and-red several years ago. Well, at least the question-marks are appropriate.

“So, you have about twelve striped shirts, and one pair of pants, yeah?” Yaz teases, unhooking her bra, and realising too late that that’s the first thing she’s said in rather a while. Probably should’ve aimed for something sexy rather than snarky.

The Doctor doesn’t appear to take offence to Yaz’s remarks, too busy staring wide-eyed at her tummy, gaze flickering briefly to her arms, and then back to her just-visible abs again.

“Police. Never know when you're gonna have to chin-up on a crane eight stories up. Gotta keep fit, right?” Yaz gabbles. It shouldn't be embarrassing, but it sort of is.

The Doctor raises her eyebrows as if to say “Yeah you do”, before catching Yaz’s bra without looking as she attempts to ping it across the room. With an intense level of interest, the Doctor spends a few moments examining the clasp.

“Oi, my tits are over here.” Yaz says, unable to resist the open goal, and immediately feeling an unnecessary amount of stress over her word choice.

It would be easier if the Doctor would just say something. Maybe she’s like Ryan, and her words go all over the place when there’s a lot going on. Not that she’s ever had sex with- Just, _maybe_ her brain works different like that. Or maybe it’s that straight up ‘anxiety or socially awkward’ thing.

Or could be she just doesn't want to say the word ‘tits’, or something else stupid or wrong, which would honestly be fair enough.

Yaz plucks her bra from the Doctor’s grasp, empty hands curling up as she rubs her fingertips together. Can an alien be autistic? Or is that just a human thing?

Beneath her, the Doctor’s pink and warm, flush spreading down her chest. There’s still a ghost of a smile in her dark eyes, and the quirk of her parted lips, but the tiniest frown of anxiety too. Silent, but expressive at least.

“Are you still ok with this?” Yaz asks, covering one of the Doctor's hands with hers, and trying to mimic how she was rubbing her fingers.

The Doctor looks back at her longingly, eyebrows scrunching together, and as if the thought was shoved into her head, she understands her to mean ‘ _I’m_ ok.’

Yaz puts her other hand flat besides the Doctor’s head again, thankful for her daily push-up routine as she bends down to the Doctor’s nose. Yaz’s mind fights its constant battle, and her boldness wins out over her shyness, as it usually does.

With the other, Yaz pulls the Doctor's hand to her breast.

“You’re not gonna break me, you know.” She whispers to her.

“No, I don’t know that.” The Doctor replies abruptly.

Yaz blinks and swallows. She can’t think of what to say. It’s too off-script. There’s too much emotion in her voice. So she takes the coward's way, and tries to kiss it out of her, to cover her confusion.

And with a sigh against her mouth, the Doctor seems to give in again, tangling her tongue against hers, and fondling her chest, rolling her nipple between her fingers until Yaz wants to whimper.

She tries to return the favour, co-ordinating her limbs with the Doctor’s, and really wishes they’d done this in _her_ bedroom with its queen-size Harry Potter-style four-poster, rather than on a squashy purple sofa in the workshop of some anthropomorphic steampunk magpie.

Her fingers stroke against the soft skin of the Doctor's breast, and the Doctor’s legs tighten around her knee between them, forcing her brain into low-power mode again.

She circles her fingertips around the Doctor's nipple, as she slowly rocks their hips together. It stiffens under her touch, the skin around it tightening, and she wants to map every change, memorise it, learn it completely.

Pulling herself from the Doctor’s lips, she slides down her body, until she finds her other breast with her mouth. She sucks on it gently, afraid of doing it too hard, and pinches her other nipple between her fingers as the Doctor moans.

Yaz raises her eyes, and catches the Doctor staring at her, mouth agape, as if watching her in the process of some impossible feat. It occurs to Yaz that the Doctor really might never have had someone feel her up before, she’s not sure how ‘new’ these actually are, and the thought sends a rush of desire through her that has her grinding down against whatever part of the Doctor she can reach. 

The Doctor’s hands suddenly wrap around her hips, pressing Yaz against her, squirming for friction, and Yaz smiles against the nipple in her mouth, looking cheekily up in the Doctor’s hungry eyes. Got you.

And instead of wiggling around and finding someway to fit their hips together at this angle, she gives the Doctor’s nipple a last squeeze, before trailing her hand down her belly.

Ok. This is it. Big moment. Come what may, she doesn’t freak out, the Doctor’s still the Doctor, and she makes it work.

Yaz slides her fingers just beneath the band of the Doctor’s underwear, and seriously wonders if her heart is going to pound out of her chest.

Curls - hair, good, fine, normal; means the Doctor’s not gonna judge her if this ends with her knickers off, because she hasn’t prepared for this.

Yaz shuffles up, unable to concentrate on using her mouth and hand at the same time, and lets her weight fall on the Doctor a bit more, forehead pressed against her neck. The Doctor nuzzles her, breath loud in her ear, and it’s all so much. It’s good, and terrifying and _new_.

She presses down further, until suddenly the Doctor’s bucking up to meet her and gasping into her ear. 

Yaz moans into her shoulder; because for one, the Doctor squirming between her legs might just be the most intoxicating sensation in the world; and two, because that is definitely a vagina under her questing fingers, and if Yaz is honest with herself, man-made familiar equipment was definitely preferable - she’s got too much baggage with Option B to try and sort through it while her IQ’s in single digits.

Yaz slowly rubs circles against her, and the Doctor rolls her hips, curling herself up to bury her own face in Yaz’s neck, and making soft little ‘Oh’s. Yaz tries to pinpoint exactly what causes them, but it’s more difficult than she'd thought. Like masturbating backwards without the instant feedback.

She starts stroking her more lightly, teasingly, just her middle finger against the Doctor's...clit? Yes, would be wouldn't it? Even if- Yeah, not enough brain cells to devote to this. She’s trying to coax some words out of her, get her to ask for what she wants, but instead the Doctor squirms against her, top to toe, cosying up, and sighs as if settling in for the long haul.

When she resumes a bit more pressure, the Doctor twitches away under her a little. Yaz can feel her scrunch up her face, and she eases off quickly. Too much friction? Right. Lube. Fuck. Trans women don’t get- Or do they? She’s almost sure that that’s a thing. Why didn't she read up on this?

Yaz drags her finger further down, as the Doctor’s hips try to follow her, clearly disagreeing with her decision to move away from her clit. She strokes very lightly against the valley of her, giving the Doctor a few seconds to tell her to stop if she wants her to. Instead the Doctor rocks against her invitingly, as Yaz presses her finger against her and slides through her folds.

Oh, she loves being wrong, being wrong’s great, must be wrong more often.

The Doctor's so wet, it makes Yaz swear, and whisper subhanallah against her skin - because out of all of the miracles they’ve seen and performed, this is one of the most beautiful, glorious, blessed moments she’s ever experienced.

Her fingers slip up to the bud of the Doctor’s clit again, around and down and back again, until the Doctor's hands resume their pressure on her hip, pulling her against her body, and Yaz is sure the Doctor can feel her own slickness through her underwear as she presses against her.

Yaz slides her fingers down again, and with her breath coming shaky and fast, finds herself stroking against the Doctor's entrance. Feels normal - or does it, how many comparisons does she have beside herself, how would she know? All she knows is that she wants to find out what the rest of her feels like.

The enormity of the moment crashes over her, and a strangled noise comes out of her mouth.

But it doesn't stop the Doctor from bucking against her, and breathing hard against her neck, and before Yaz can overthink it, she presses into the warm wetness between the Doctor's legs. 

The Doctor moans, and Yaz suddenly feels teeth against her shoulder - not quite biting down - while the Doctor’s arms and free leg crush her in a bear hug. The breath goes out of her, and she goes limp in the Doctor’s embrace until she’s slid her finger inside her as far as she can, knuckles pressed against skin.

Yaz holds still. It’s an impossible feeling. Being inside someone else.

The pressure on her shoulder releases, and the Doctor kisses the spot softly, over and over again, like an apology. Yaz tries to tell her she didn’t actually mind the biting as it turned out, but all that comes out of her is an extra loud huff of air. Words. Words hard.

The Doctor’s arms relax slowly as well, sliding down her, and Yaz feels the tickle of her hair against her back as the Doctor idly cards her plait between her fingers. Then suddenly she stops and balls her hands into fists against her.

“What?!” Yaz blurts out, heart dropping, and suddenly panicking that she can’t remember what her nails are like right now.

“Hair. Sorry.” The Doctor mumbles against her.

Yaz blinks and tries to remember how to breathe again. And temporarily ignore the whole ‘fingering’ situation.

“Wha- why- You can touch my hair. That’s fine. Kind of like it actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Not when it’s all loose and gets knotty,” Cus she’d probably get jam in it or something, “But, uh, this is fine.”

“Oh.” The Doctor says, as if she’s having some sort of paradigm shift, and Yaz feels the slight tug against her head that tells her the Doctor’s tentatively resumed her petting.

Where did the no hair-touching rule come from? Or more likely - from who?

Maybe they should have talked more.

You know, before she stuck her finger inside her.

“I’ll carry on, shall I?” She asks. Yes Yasmin Khan, use your _work voice_ , that’ll get this handjob back on track.

As if she heard her thought, the Doctor sniggers beneath her, and it makes her tighten around Yaz’s finger in a way she’s definitely going to have to make happen again.

“Get a shift on then.” The Doctor says, making Yaz snort with laughter, and well at least they’re both complete disasters.

Yaz slowly slides her finger out, crooking it up slightly just in case that sort of thing still works in the Doctor’s case. She wants to keep watching her face, but the Doctor tilts her chin up for a kiss, and Yaz can’t help but oblige her.

She tries to form a rhythm, testing slightly different positions as the Doctor wriggles her hips, before Yaz even thinks to slick her thumb up and rub the Doctor's clit at the same time. It’s hard to get the pressure right, but the Doctor doesn't seem to mind - snuggling against her neck.

“Another one?”

“Hmm.”

“Is that a ‘Yes’ hmm, or a ‘No’ hmm?”

“It’s a ‘Hmm’ hmm.” The Doctor mutters, and after a few moments adds, “Fine, it’s a ‘Yes’ hmm.”

Yaz slides out so only her fingertip remains within her, and brings her middle finger alongside, teasing and revelling in the Doctor's wetness, while her thumb circles whisper-light around her clit.

“You can ask me to do stuff. I mean it, I’m not gonna break on you.” It’s very much like being trusted with responsibility, which is both a career goal and a kink now too apparently.

The Doctor's hips raise and shift beneath her, and Yaz tries to keep note of the amount of pressure she seems to be chasing. But it’s hard with the bolts of pleasure coming from where the Doctor rubs up against her.

With a sigh, the Doctor lets her head fall back over the arm of the sofa, and Yaz gets a look at her flushed face, with her pupils wide and black - pinpoints of the TARDIS’s lights reflecting off them like stars. 

“I’m new, it’s all new, it feels so different,” She whines, utterly endearing and scruffy and beautiful. Then the Doctor tilts her head up to look at her, and it’s like peering into her unguarded soul. “I’ve never done this before - not like this, I don’t know what I want.” 

Her breath tickles Yaz’s lips. 

“Except...you.” 

The Doctor’s face crumples with guilt before burying it in the crook of her neck; but her hands tighten on her back and in her hair, hips thrusting up to meet her, and Yaz moans, sliding both fingers inside her, thumbing her clit and desperately fucking against her.

It’s rough, and she can’t think and she really wishes she had taken the Doctor’s sodding shorts off. Her thrusting fingers fill the air with wet noises alongside the Doctor's breathy babbling, until she hits an angle that makes the Doctor’s moans of “You”, “Yaz”, and bizarrely “I’m sorry”, turn into wordless gasps, and all she can do is try to keep that position, ignore the ache in her wrist, and try not to be overcome by the heat pooling between her legs.

And then suddenly the Doctor’s clenching around her - tight and rhythmic around her thrusting fingers, arms and legs fastening around her body, her teeth biting into her shoulder.

Yaz rocks against her, pressing firmly against the top of her clit as the Doctor’s hips twitch and she rides her orgasm out to the last pulse.

The pressure of the Doctor bucked against her hand lessens, as she starts to return to heavy quavering breaths, and Yaz slides her fingertips against her swollen clit one last time, making her squirm, before disentangling herself and falling back on the other side of the sofa.

Trying to hold onto every sense memory, Yaz leans back and finally shoves her hand down her pants, the Doctor's wetness making her own fingertips glide against her clit before she even presses into her own sopping heat.

Shit, there’s a safe sex thing here isn’t there. Is there? Something to do with plastic square cling film? Oh, who cares.

This ‘only the present moment’ thing might explain a whole lot to do with sex problems actually.

She takes a last glimpse at the Doctor on the other end of the sofa, limbs splayed, flushed and naked except for her grey boxers with an obscene damp spot, and then shuts her eyes, holding the image, trying to finish herself off quickly, and wishes she’d just come against the Doctor’s thigh. 

The couch shifts, and a single cold fingertip - carefully, tentatively - starts stroking up the inside of her leg.

Yaz immediately curls her fingers away from herself. Which is ridiculous, because the whole point is to orgasm, but her stupid reptile brain says there might be the promise of more.

Instead, she finds the Doctor’s hand, tangling her fingers with hers, making them slick from the pair of them. Yaz doesn’t pull her hand towards her, just invites her with tiny, slippery, coaxing strokes against the pads of her fingers, as if she were teasing her clit again.

The Doctor's hand starts moving on its own impetus, until Yaz feels the Doctor leaning over her - coming to sit between her legs.

Yaz opens her eyes, staring into the Doctor’s still-flushed face as she slowly wraps her fingers around the top of her knickers - clearly learning from Yaz's mistake.

She raises her hips as the Doctor slides them off, and she’s never felt more exposed in her life.

Suddenly she understands why the Doctor was so speechless before. Because there’s a woman looking down at her - no, a Force of Nature - with hungry eyes and parted lips, and she aches, _aches_ to be touched by her.

The Doctor's hand reaches forward again, stopping just shy of where she needs it, stroking her curls. Yaz feels a squirming embarrassment, wanting to apologise for their being so _much_ down there. Wasn't expecting company, she’d joke. But she can’t find the ability to speak with the Doctor looking at her like that, breathing hard and biting on her bottom lip.

The Doctor runs her hand along the juncture of Yaz’s thigh, trailing it down and looks into her eyes.

Yaz nods desperately, the Doctor’s hand disappears for a moment, and then suddenly there are someone else's fingers between her legs.

The Doctor whispers something unintelligible under a shaking breath.

It's incredible, it makes her feel powerful, it makes her feel vulnerable, it makes her feel _good_.

Maybe this is why you're supposed to wait for marriage, says a hideously pious part of her brain, and she tries to bury it back where it came from - beneath the memories of every spectacular orgasm she’s ever had.

The Doctor circles her clit a few times and then slowly slides down into her wetness.

With a sudden realisation she might actually care about this, Yaz thinks about telling her not to ...press in. This counts, this all definitely counts, bye bye virginity for real this time, but it suddenly seems so all at once, and in a rush, and yeah, she didn't really give a second thought about fingering _her_ , so it wouldn't really be fair to say no, but-

The Doctor's fingers come back up to her clit, almost embarrassingly wet, but stop still, pressed against her.

“Ok?” The Doctor whispers, and Yaz opens her eyes and meets hers - dark with desire, but wide with some raw emotion on the edge of panic.

Yaz nods. And then hoping the internet is right about the importance of communication says, “Good, _good_. Really, good. Uh, is no fingers ok? Like-” She makes a rather crude gesture, and the Doctor frowns for a second before apparently cottoning on.

“No penetration.” The Doctor says clinically. “But this is alright?” She adds a little shakily, flicking her eyes down and back up, and Yaz circles her hips in response, making the Doctor fall sideways against the back of the sofa. She presses her lips to Yaz’s knee, breathing rapidly.

“More than alright.” Yaz says, testing her new theory, and the Doctor sighs as if she's just kissed her.

Well, who doesn't like to be praised.

As the Doctor strokes her, Yaz tries to keep whispering silly sweet things to her, even as it starts feeling so good she can hardly think straight. A mumble about her ‘clever fingers’ earns her something that’s almost a purr, and that sends enough heat to her core to almost make her come by itself.

“Gentler. That's it, brilliant.” Yaz whispers, as the Doctor's touch becomes light and slow. The Doctor never struck her as the type to take orders, but then again, Yaz knows she doesn't exactly look like the sort who is happy to give them herself. Much to many people’s disappointment. Not to the Doctor's though.

Her touch becomes even slower, and then the Doctor takes a breath as if to say something. Yaz opens her eyes, to see the Doctor looking from her, to the fingers stroking her clit, and back again, with that heady mix of lust with a hint of nerves. The Doctor licks her lips.

“I- I’ve never actually done this before - sensory problem - so tell me if- If I’m- Just, what you want, ok?” She gabbles, and before Yaz can really parse the sentence, the Doctor's shifting - swinging her legs behind her as she lies on her stomach, settling herself between Yaz’s knees and-

_Tongue._

“S-smart girl. Biology.” Her brain finishes for her, out loud, while she throws her head back on the arm of the sofa.

The Doctor's little noise of delight hums its way to her clit, and Yaz desperately tries not to groan.

It's so teasing, just the tip of her tongue. Yaz tries to look again, to see what's happening, forcing herself up on her elbows.

Oh yeah. Yep. Someone's head between her legs. Yeah, that really is a lot. 

The Doctor's not looking up, focused on what she's doing - which is to say _her_. Little laps like she's testing her, then occasional kisses as she gets more brave. Tongue sliding over her, lips catching her clit in her mouth. _Sucking_.

The Doctor's teasing uncertainty shifts into playful confidence. Like she’s quickly mapped out every nanometer of her clit and - like she’s fiddling with some machine - now wonders what would happen if she does _this_. Long laps of her tongue rubbing against a particularly sensitive spot that makes Yaz groan when she moves away. Curling the tip of her tongue around her, and underneath, and squirming into places in ways her fingers never seem to manage. Changes of pressure as if designed to keep her close but not spilling over; canting her hips up and kissing her lips, broad strokes down the centre of her, never pressing in but dancing around, until Yaz wants to tell her to forget what she said, ignore the rule and just fuck her now.

The Doctor pulls back, grinning at her, lips swollen and mouth glistening with wetness; wiping it from her chin as if someone had made the mistake of leaving her alone with a fruit bowl for five minutes.

And as she slowly leans in again, holding her gaze, that playfulness in turn shifts into something far less definable.

The Doctor’s enjoying this. Well of course she should be enjoying this, ideally. But there’s an intensity to it, a glitter in her eyes, that makes Yaz feel like a mouse being played with by a cat. How appropriate that the Doctor looks like she wants to _eat_ her.

There’s the lightest brush of teeth against her, and Yaz squeaks, _feeling_ the Doctor’s smirk between her thighs. 

The Doctor presses close, wrapping her arms around her, putting Yaz’s knees more firmly over her shoulders, and sucks and nips and licks at her, keeping that dangerous eye-contact, while high-pitched noises escape Yaz’s mouth, and the Doctor hums her pleasure against her.

She gets so close again, and the Doctor pulls back like she always does, and as Yaz moans at the barest stroke of tongue on her clit, she loses the fight to stay still, and bucks her hips forward.

Desperate apologies babble out of her, as a wave of anxiety threatens to drown her pleasure. The Doctor's eyes regain a clarity they’d lost, changing to a brief frown of confusion, and then - as if she can see the fight in her mind - becomes a look of determination. She grabs Yaz’s hand and buries it in her hair, sucking her clit between her lips and fluttering her tongue against it until all Yaz can do is gasp.

The Doctor keeps hold of her hand until Yaz tangles her fingers properly in her hair, releasing the pressure on it until Yaz is squirming against her tongue. Then she teases her lighter and lighter, further and further away, before pressing her hand against Yaz’s - making Yaz pull her head towards her clit again. It takes less than a minute for Yaz to get the gist. She's always been a quick study. If she wants it, she’ll have to make her give it to her. The Doctor _wants_ her to control her. 

And slowly, finally, Yaz lets herself grind against her mouth.

The Doctor trails her other hand up Yaz's body, exploring her stomach, and laying her palm flat against it for a moment, feeling the clench of muscles underneath as Yaz rocks against her mouth.

It carries on further up, cupping her breast and rolling her nipple between her fingers until Yaz swears and the Doctor's mouth falters against her as she moans, intense need in her eyes that Yaz knows is mirrored in her own.

The Doctor’s movements become clumsy and desperate, the hand clutching Yaz’s to her hair disappears, and Yaz watches the Doctor shove it underneath her body, hips squirming as she touches herself, and there has _never_ been any moment more amazing than this. Like she’s brought something divine to its knees and overcome it with bliss.

Yaz lightly tugs on the Doctor’s hair, and she gasps between her legs, shifting a millimetre to the left, tongue rubbing against her harder and faster, filling her ears with wet sounds, heavy breathing, and muffled moans. The Doctor wants this. She wants this. Yaz wraps her other hand around the back of the Doctor’s head, tucking her hair behind her ear as she does, so she can see her beautiful face, the flushed pink of her cheeks, her eyes full of stars looking only at _her_.

Yaz’s hips twitch and shake uncontrollably as she pulls the Doctor's mouth against her, and with a cry, she comes, legs clenching tight around the Doctor’s head, her earring digging into her thigh.

The Doctor's lips press against her, for wave after wave, until she can’t take any more and has to pull her away. 

All the energy seems to have escaped her, and she relaxes, letting her leg drop over the side of the sofa, and the Doctor falls more heavily against the inner curve of her hip, eyes closed, still moving slightly.

Flood of hormones already beginning to dissipate, Yaz’s thoughts start to form more clearly in her head again, and embarrassment in the face of reality starts to creep in. But she tries to push it away, to let it be replaced with fascination instead.

She feels exposed, and sweaty, and a little gross. Definitely tired. But happy. Almost giddy.

And there is still a woman between her legs.

The Doctor moans, hot breath on her damp thigh. Whispering something she can’t make out. She doesn't want to distract her, but finds herself stroking the Doctor's hair anyway. She wonders if it’s something in an alien language, or something filthy, or both. Feels almost self-centred now to hope it’s about her. But she does.

Nuzzling against her, the Doctor’s tongue darts out to lick her lips, still wet with her come. Suddenly even the Doctor’s panting breaths are too much stimulation on her.

Yaz rubs her thumb across the Doctor's temple, emotions flooding through her as she watches her, red-faced and fidgeting and longing for release.

She’s wonderful. A marvellous, amazing, golden being. Always so good, always trying so hard. And seeing her in these open moments, the glimpses of her vulnerable hidden self, only makes the Doctor more incredible to her.

“Come on,” Yaz whispers, running her fingers through the Doctor's hair, lust and post-orgasmic chemistry infusing her with confidence. “Come for me, I know you will; come for me, I need you.”

And the Doctor stiffens and gasps, Yaz memorising every detail from the curves of her lips, to the lines of her tightly closed eyes, to the pattern of the flush down her chest, until the Doctor goes limp and curls up on her side, hand still wedged between her thighs, breaths coming hard and deep.

Yaz takes a last look at her, a final catalogue, before letting her head fall back and her eyes slide shut.

Never did get her pants off.

Oh well. Next time. Always important to have goals.

She’s dimly aware of the Doctor shifting, yawning, and clambering to her feet. There’s the sound of a door sliding open to her left, and then water running.

Supposing there is a next time. That this isn’t a one-off that they’ll never speak about again. That it’s not gonna have to go in the dark room in her brain between the space where Lisa will forever be squealing ‘Ew’ after she tried to kiss her, and when she let- No. No, it won’t be like that. Whatever happens, this was a good moment. Even if she’s messed up their relationship forever, and nothing will ever be the same between them again, and-

“Aaaah.” The Doctor says behind her head, and with dentist-chair instinct and deep deliberate trust, Yaz opens her mouth.

The Doctor pops a custard cream inside it.

“Dunno about you, but my blood sugar’s all over the show.”

Or maybe, just maybe, they’re both still themselves, and everything is just fine.

  



End file.
